


Weekend at Dean's

by alexjanna91



Series: Dean Winchester, Patron Saint (Apple Pie Life) [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: BAMF Dean Winchester, Dean Winchester Has Powers, Demons, Gen, Hellhounds, Injury, Kid Fic, Original Character(s), Parental Dean Winchester, Protective Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-16
Updated: 2015-01-18
Packaged: 2018-03-07 18:32:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3178748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexjanna91/pseuds/alexjanna91
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bobby had been having a hell of a night, but when one phone call brought Dean back into his life things just got down right <i>interesting</i>. Yeah, that never ended well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Part of my Patron Saint arc of my Apple Pie Life verse.  
> I did perfunctory research on felonies and misdemeanors. It’s probably not accurate procedure, just bear with me.

It was a Friday night and Dean was supervising a sleepover. Ben, Errol, and Nathan had decided to have a night of scary(for kids anyway) movies with enough candy that Dean would be very surprised if they still had teeth in the morning. It was going on ten thirty and Lisa had already admitted defeat and headed up to bed, leaving Dean to rediscover his cultural heritage through his childhood viewing preferences. It was all very PG-PG13 fun. 

Dean had to keep smothering his laughter every time the boys jumped or made little squeaks of fright. It was freaking adorable. 

Munching on purloined candy, Dean was sprawled out on the couch with the kids piled on the floor in front of the tv with mountains of pillows nearly smothering them. They’d long since devoured the three pizza’s Dean had ordered for them (one pizza for himself of course) and he could tell they were flagging. 

Shelly had specifically ordered that Nathan’s bed time was eight thirty exactly and since Dean would never be considered a strict caretaker he was fully prepared to let the kids pass out in front of the tv in the wee hours of the morning. As long they didn’t rat him out, Dean figured it was fine. 

They had just put in _Goonies_ for a change from little furry carnivores when Dean’s cell rang. Since the majority of the people who even knew that number were parents, cops, or Bobby, when it was ten thirty on a Friday Dean figured it was either Shelly checking up her son, or Hart calling with some kind of emergency. 

He pulled it out of his pocket and flipped it open. “Yeah?”

“ _Dean._ ”

Jolting up into a sitting position, Dean felt a surge of adrenaline. “Bobby?”

“ _No, it’s Santa Clause. You’re getting a lump of coal for Christmas._ ” There was a huff then the ever familiar, “ _Ya idjit._ ” 

Dean hadn’t really talked to Bobby since they’d parted ways after the prize fight that wasn’t. He hadn’t been expecting any kind of call from Bobby unless it was to tell him someone else they knew was dead. 

“Why are you calling, Bobby? We haven’t talked since Sammy.”

“ _Yeah._ ” Bobby breathed and it was obvious he wasn’t the only one still affected by the memory. “ _And I wouldn’t be calling you unless it was a bit of an emergency._ ” 

Dean pushed the sudden resurgence of grief down to concentrate on more immediate concerns. “The world’s ending again kind of emergency, or my basement’s flooded kind of emergency.” 

“ _The world ain’t ending again, boy. Don’t be stupid._ ” 

“Well, that’s a relief.” Dean rolled his eyes. He had almost missed having his intelligence insulted on a regular basis. 

“ _Damn it. I don’t have time for this. I only got three minutes left._ ” Bobby growled, and suddenly the background noise on the line made a lot more sense. 

“Bobby,” Dean drawled, “Where exactly are you?”

There was a pause. “ _I might be in lock up in Andover, Massachusetts._ ”

Dean was pretty sure his blood pressure just rose a few points. “Bobby, why are you in lock up in Andover, Massachusetts?”

Another long pause and a growl, “ _Because I got busted breaking into a museum._ ” It sounded like it actually caused Bobby pain to admit he wasn’t as smooth a criminal as he thought.

“Jesus, Bobby!” Dean’s outburst drew the attention of the boys on the floor. He waved off Ben’s concerned look and moved to finish the conversation in the kitchen. 

“ _Don’t ‘Jesus’ me, boy!_ ” Bobby didn’t like being scolded by anyone. Much less a man nearly forty years younger that Bobby had known since the kid was a snot-nosed little shit. 

“I’ll ‘Jesus’ you all I want when you call me at ten thirty to come bail you out.” Dean hissed into the phone. 

“ _I don’t want you to bail me out._ ” Bobby’s voice had risen in indignation, but ended in an angry hiss. He didn’t want his conversation overheard. 

Blinking in surprise, Dean asked. “If you don’t want me to bail you out, then why did you call me?”

“ _I was breaking into the museum to get a ring, a signet ring dug up from a ship wreck that went down in 1742._ ”

Pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration Dean took a breath. “Okay. So why do you need the signet ring? Is it for a hunt or something?”

“ _Yeah. It’s for a hunt and I need it._ ” There was something Bobby wasn’t telling him, but Dean didn’t want to try and pry it out of him right then. When it suited him, the old hunter could be like a steal trap with his secrets. 

As it was, Dean still couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. “You want me to steal it for you, don’t you?”

“ _Well, it ain’t like I never did anything for you without complaining one word about it._ ” Yeah, Dean had forgotten just how good Bobby was at guilt trips.

“Oh, shut up, old man. I didn’t say I wasn’t going to do it. I’m just surprised you didn’t get it before you got arrested.” Dean rolled his eyes. He could tell he was going to be doing that a lot. 

“ _Yeah, well. I would have if the cops hadn’t been tipped off. I didn’t even get through the security system before they were cuffing me._ ” 

Now, that wasn’t good. It was almost unheard of for hunters to get arrested on a tip off. If it did happen it was when someone else had something to gain by getting them out of the way. It was never just a nosy old lady walking her cat in the middle of the night.

Dean sighed in defeat and looked up at the ceiling. He was tempted to pray for strength since he was practically tripping over angels these days, but decided he didn’t want to have to deal with all the trouble that could stir up. 

“You know what, I don’t want to know. I’ll be there in fifteen hours. Don’t do anything stupid until I get there.” He hung up before Bobby could cuss at him again for giving him lip. 

Stalking angrily down the hall into his room, Dean pulled his duffle out from under his bed where it had been gathering dust and started tossing enough clothes for a few days into it. He was grumbling and muttering angrily to himself and didn’t notice Ben standing in his doorway. 

“You’re leaving, aren’t you?”

Snapping his head up, Dean looked at the boy. Ben’s shoulders were hunched and his arms were crossed. He finished tossing his shaving kit inside then zipped everything up before he answered. “Yeah. A friend of mine is in trouble and I’m going to go help him.” 

Ben chewed on his lip and nudged at the carpet with his toes. “How along are you going to be gone?”

“A couple of days, maybe a week.” Dean said.

“Are you gonna come back?” It was quiet and Dean almost didn’t hear it. But he did hear it and his chest tightened for the second time that night. 

“Yeah, Ben.” His voice was suddenly hoarse and he stepped up placing both hands on the boy’s shoulders. “I’m coming back, ‘cause I’m pretty sure you kids would starve if I wasn’t around to feed you.” Dean gave him a grin, but he just kept staring down at the carpet, his arms crossed sullenly over his chest. 

Sighing, Dean nudged Ben’s head up with a gentle knock in the chin. “I promise, Ben. I will come back to you.” He gave him another grin trying to lighten the mood again. “Hell, I don’t know what I’d do with myself at this point if I didn’t have to fold your ninja turtle underwear after doing the laundry.” 

That got a reluctant chuckle from the kid. “Yeah, it would be weird to not have perfectly folded clothes anymore. Mom’s not really good at that kind of thing.” 

Dean chuckled and grabbed his duffle tossing it over his shoulder. “Alright, kiddo. I have to go now. Your mom’s here so don’t worry, I’m pretty sure you won’t starve. I’ll be back soon.”

He ruffled Ben’s hair and made to walk around him out the door, but Ben suddenly launched himself at Dean’s middle and latched on. 

“I’ll miss you, Dean.” The kid’s words were muffled against Dean’s stomach, but he heard them perfectly fine. 

Giving into the almost painful yanking of his heart strings, Dean curled over him and put his arms around Ben’s back holding him tight against him for a moment. 

They stood like that for a good fifteen seconds, before Dean finally straightened up and nudged Ben back. “Alright, no more chick-flick moments. I have to go tell your mom I’m leaving then I’ve got to drive for fifteen hours.” He placed a hand back on Ben’s shoulder and led him back to the living room. 

When they were in the relative dark of the living room again, the glare from the tv nearly the only light, Ben turned his face up at Dean and gave him a smile. He couldn’t not return it and with one last companionable glance, he let the boy get back to his sleepover and Dean jogged up the stairs to tell Lisa he was leaving. 

Twenty minutes later, Dean was in the Impala and heading out of town toward Bobby and whatever trouble the older hunter had gotten himself into. Yep, it was going to be a long couple of days. 

*

Fifteen hours and over two-hundred dollars in gas and caffeine later, Dean pulled up to the police precinct where Bobby was cooling his heels. He was exhausted and shaky. After almost a year of domestication, Dean’s tolerance for driving through the night with enough caffeine to sink a battle ship filling up his blood stream was shot all to hell. 

Turning off the engine, Dean leaned his forehead against the steering wheel and took deep steady breaths. He was not going to walk into a police station looking like a junky because he hadn’t slept in twenty-four hours. That was just common sense. 

Also he didn’t want to walk in looking like he was one step away from going postal because he was so pissed at Bobby for getting caught in the first place. 

By the time he made it up the stairs and in the doors, Dean was calm, cocky, and only mildly pissed. Once he posted bail, he was going give the older hunter a lecture that would peel paint and then he wasn’t going to ever let Bobby live this down. Dean was going to give him so much shit for this he’ll be swimming in it. 

He stepped up to the front desk and asked the old frighteningly competent woman behind the glass where he could find Detective Jack Thompson. He’d asked Hart to make a call and give the detective handling Bobby’s case a heads up that his next of kin was coming to post bail. 

The detective was sitting at his desk cluttered with empty coffee cups and balled up paperwork. He was hunched over his computer pounding at the keys and clicking the mouse like he was playing one of those whack-a-mole games because doing that repeatedly would magically fix his problem. 

“Detective Thompson?” Dean watched the man give one last frustrated jab at the delete key before he shoved the keyboard away in disgust. He turned to face him and looked Dean up and down. 

The young man standing next to his desk looked like the kind of guy that had spent a fair amount of time on the wrong side of the law. He wore a battered leather jacket that looked older than him, a faded pair of jeans, and steel toed work boots with dried mud coating the rubber soles like it was a part of them. 

He was muscular in a way that you got from hard work. His knuckles were thick with scars and more were scattered haphazardly across his hands, neck and face. They weren’t the kinds of scars you found on honest law abiding citizens, they were the kind you found on a man used to violence. His eyes were blood shot and the look in them was haunted enough to send a shiver up your spine. 

This man could be very dangerous if you gave him a reason and Jack would bet his left nut that the only reason he wasn’t packing heat at the moment was because he was surrounded by cops.

Jack Thompson lifted a stoic eyebrow, not impressed. “And you are?”

The kid held out a callused scarred hand. “Dean Campbell. I’m Robert Singer’s nephew.”

Shaking his hand with an almost painful grip, like real men shook hands, Thompson’s expression didn’t change. “Detective Hart called this morning. Said you were driving in from Indiana.” 

“Yeah,” Campbell nodded, but didn’t sit down. Thompson hadn’t offered and he was pleased the kid hadn’t taken the liberty. “Bobby called me last night and I drove up to bail him out.” 

Thompson gave him a knowing look. “That’s not all you came here for.” 

Campbell shook his head and stuck his hands in his jacket pockets, an unconscious habit. “I want to talk to you about charging Bobby with trespassing as a misdemeanor instead of a B-n-E.”

Leaning back in his chair with a considering look Thompson drawled, “Now, why would I do that?”

Campbell’s mouth quirked up in a wry smile. “Because he hadn’t had the time to actually break in before he was arrested and it would be a hell of a lot less paperwork to charge him with a misdemeanor instead of a felony.” 

“It would also keep your uncle out of jail.” Jack pointed out not believing for a moment that they were actually related.

The kid shrugged, “Sure, but you and I both know that if you tried to give him jail time, he wouldn’t be in town long enough try him.” 

Thompson raised both eyebrows at that. “Are you admitting to having the intent to assist him in running from the law?”

Campbell shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. You read people; the moment you laid eyes on me you had me pegged for a potentially dangerous criminal with plenty of experience avoiding the law.” He gave the detective a wry smirk. “And you’re not wrong. So, you know that Bobby is a master escape artist and that you won’t be able to find him to try him after he makes bail.”

He made a good point. The moment the uniforms hauled the older man in, Thompson had taken one look at him and knew he was intelligent and determined. The only reason he was in lock up and not already across state lines was because he still needed something from the museum. 

“I’m waiting to hear the rest of your argument.” He was curious now. If the kid gave him a good enough incentive he was liked to let him plead Singer down to a misdemeanor. 

“I’ll pay his bail, his fine, and alert his local sheriff that he is obligated to do however many hours of community service you deem appropriate.” 

Now that was interesting. Thompson gave the kid a curious upturn of his lips. “His local sheriff?”

“Sheriff Mills would have Bobby’s balls in a sling if he got into any real trouble outside of her jurisdiction. They have a complicated relationship.” Campbell shrugged nonchalantly, but it was obvious that he found the situation very amusing. 

Thompson actually laughed. This kid was a genius, a genius conman. He wasn’t at all in doubt of getting exactly what he wanted. No wonder he wasn’t behind bars already. He could probably talk himself out of anything except maybe murder. Even then Thompson suspected that if he ever actually got charged with murder he’d plead self-defense and have the jury eating out of the palm of his hand. He’d never spend more than the minimum sentence in prison if that. 

Shaking his head in defeat, Thompson said, “You’ve successfully begged your uncle down to a misdemeanor. His bail is five hundred dollars. I’ll suggest a fine of a thousand and a month of community service.” Thompson turned to his computer to start on the necessary paperwork then he remembered that his computer was currently frozen like a deer in headlights. 

Growling at the infernal contraption, he began to jab at the keyboard again. 

Apparently Campbell was not a patient man, because he raised his voice over the frustrated nonsensical pounding of keys. “Can I take a look? I’m pretty good with computers.”

Thompson turned back to him looking him up and down again. The kid didn’t look like he’d be a person too acquainted with the inner workings of a computer, but then again he was a good generation younger. All the younger cops knew how to navigate the crap equipment the state provides them with. 

“Sure.” He scooted back from the desk and prepared to give Campbell the chair, but the kid just waved him off and leaned over his shoulder. 

His callused fingers lightly tapped three keys, scrolled down on the menu that had suddenly popped up, tapped a few more keys then the entire screen went black and the constant whirring the thing did ground to a stop. They sat like that for a long moment, Thompson leaning back in his chair and Campbell leaning across him poised over the keyboard. 

In exactly thirty seconds, Campbell reached over and pressed the power button until it lit up and the whirring started up again. The computer went through several screens before it finally ended up on the main screen; the only one Thompson was actually familiar with. 

A few more taps of keys and Campbell had the windows with Thompson’s paperwork up and right where he’d left off when his computer decided to join a union and go on strike. 

“There you go.” Campbell straightened up and gave Thompson a cocky grin. “Next time it freezes up, just hold the power button until it shuts down then wait thirty seconds before turning it back on. You usually won’t be able to recover whatever you were doing when it froze, I reckon that’s a bit too complicated for you, but it will start working again.”

“Huh.” For a dangerous criminal, Campbell was actually very helpful. “Let’s get that paperwork done.”

Thirty minutes later, Dean was swiping his legit check card in his fake name and shelling out fifteen hundred in bail and fines. Then Thompson led him to lock up. They came to a stop in front of the cell with a jittery crack head, a bald tattooed body builder, and a three hundred pound dude covered in body glitter wearing a mesh muscle shirt. 

Dean smirked. “Let me guess, public indecency?”

Bobby’s head shot up from where he’d been sitting next to Glitter Dude and leaning back against the wall. 

“Dean?” He burst out incredulously. 

“The one and only.” Dean laughed when Bobby’s face immediately shifted to indignation as he jumped off the bench and stormed over to the bars. 

“Damn it, boy! I told you I didn’t want you to come get me?” He glared through the bars. 

Dean just glared right back. “And I didn’t listen.” 

Bobby sighed in resignation. “You didn’t do what I asked you to either, did you?”

“Nope.” Dean said then stepped back so Thompson could unlock the cell. Bobby stepped through and stared hard at Dean for a long moment before he gave in and wrapped the boy in a tight hug.

“It’s good to see you, Dean.”

Wrapping his arms around Bobby as well, Dean gave the older man a hard squeeze soaking up the rare comfort. “You too, Bobby. It’s been too long.” 

Pulling back, Bobby shrugged. “Yeah, well.” 

Dean didn’t know what to say with all the unspoken hurt and grief suddenly hanging between them. He cleared his throat and nodded. “Yeah.”

Unwilling to air any more of their grief and family business in public, much less in front of a cop, they turned and followed a stoic Thompson out to the front desk to collect Bobby’s affects and sign more papers. The detective had watched the two men closely. Witness to their reunion and unspoken reminder of shared pain, his curiosity had only grown. 

Bobby noticed Thompson’s intent gaze on them and sent Dean a wary look. He received a wide-eyed innocent expression in return. Rolling his eyes, he turned his attention back to the detective.

Thompson met his gaze and nodded in acknowledgement. “I hope you appreciate your nephew, Mr. Singer. You have him to thank for your quick release and your misdemeanor charge.” 

Raising a surprised eyebrow, Bobby glanced at the younger hunter. Dean just gazed stoically back. 

“I’m mighty appreciative.” He answered sincerely. “Dean’s always been good to his family. Sometimes too good.” 

Dean glared at Bobby, but didn’t respond. Thompson on the other hand quirked a wry smile at the other man and said, “Of that, I have no doubt.”

Nodding to the two men that had made his night very interesting, Thompson retreated back to his desk. The moment they were gone he was going to call up Detective Hart in Cicero and see if he couldn’t drag more information on Dean Campbell out of him.

*

Now, with plyers, a roll of electrical tape, pocket knife, wallet, and car keys back in his possession, Bobby followed Dean out of the police station. He waited until they were in the Impala and a good two blocks away before he spoke.

“Is there any particular reason you didn’t steal the ring like I told you?”

“Yeah.” Dean said his eyes glued to the road and his voice low. “I didn’t steal it because the museum went on lock down and boosted security after you were busted. And you lied about why you needed it.” 

“I didn’t lie!” He protested not convincingly at all. 

“Oh, really?” Dean drawled sarcastically. “So there isn’t another reason you need the ring? It’s just a simple hunt you’re on. You just decided to call me for help even though you knew I was out of the life?” He finished in an angry growl.

The silence was heavy. Neither man spoke again until they’d pulled into a motel, paid for a room, and parked in front of the door. 

They both sat in the car after the engine had quieted and Dean pulled the keys from the ignition. 

Bobby took a deep breath and blew it out, deflating. “Crowley still has my soul. He didn’t give it back after the end.” He took another breath and continued. “I got his name from when he was alive; Fergus MacLeod. I need the ring because it belonged to his son. I want to summon him, get him to tell me where Crowley’s planted.” 

“So you can burn his bones.” Dean filled in the blanks. “Because all demons really are is just a twisted, fucked up human soul.” 

“Yeah.” Bobby stared out the windshield toward the motel room door, not really seeing it.

The silence returned, heavy and filled with tension. Dean was the first to break it. Seeming to come to some sort of decision, he cursed, scrubbed agitatedly at his hair then dropped his hands to the steering wheel and turned to Bobby. 

“You don’t need the signet ring. I know an easier way to get his bones.”

“How?” Bobby demanded dubiously. 

Dean gave him an unimpressed look, shoved his door open and stalked toward their room. “I’ll tell you after we get back to Cicero.” 

Bobby rolled his eyes at Dean’s impudence and hurriedly got out to follow him. 

“We’ll get your car out of impound in the morning and drive straight through.”

“You’re not going to pay to get my car out too,” Bobby said prepared to fight him on it. 

He didn’t have to. Dean scoffed, “Hell no! You can pay to get your own damn car back.” 

The mood was thoroughly lightened and Bobby just shook his head. That boy; a cockier son of a bitch there never was. 

What would Bobby do without him?

*

They didn’t get Bobby’s car back until after lunch. By the time they made the trip back to Indiana with coffee and pee breaks, they were three in the morning pulling into Lisa’s driveway. 

The neighborhood was asleep, quiet and perfectly suburban. Baby’s rumbling engine broke the silence like a lullaby. Dean parked her with a small pleased grin on his lips. Bobby pulled his ‘71 Chevelle up behind him and turned off the engine. The walk up to the front door was quiet, neither wanting to make much more noise than their cars already had. 

Locking the door behind them, Dean went to drop his duffle off in his room. Bobby dropped his on the couch and looked around. The house was clean, organized, homey and Bobby suddenly got a flash of home sickness. His house hadn’t looked anything like this since Karen died. 

Shaking the maudlin thoughts away, Bobby snorted to himself in disbelief. He almost couldn’t believe that a Winchester lived here. If he had to peg either of the boys for the settling down type he would have put his money on Sam. 

Looking over at the tv and seeing rows of kid movies, a game system, and giant floor pillows piled up in the corner, Bobby realized that Dean living here wasn’t all that strange after all. The boy had always connected with children like no one he’d ever met before. Witnesses, victims, random kids in a diner, Dean charmed them all. They had always seemed to gravitate to him like they knew a great protector when they saw one. Or like he was made of candy, but either way, kids had always liked him. 

It put a small quietly pleased smile on his face. Good for him. Good for Dean. 

“Hey, Bobby. You’re on the couch.”

Bobby turned around to see Dean coming out of a hallway that presumably led to his room. He had his arms full of sheets, a pillow and a blanket. 

Raising an eyebrow, Bobby said, “You don’t have to do nothing fancy for me, boy. I don’t seem to remember ever putting a chocolate on your pillow when you camped out with me.”

“And a chocolate every evening would have been nice.” Dean replied with a roll of his eyes. He dumped the bed clothes on the couch. “Too bad you’re not getting any chocolate either. Need to watch your figure, Bobby.”

Bobby scowled and scoffed at the shit eating grin on Dean’s face. Dean just laughed. 

“Come on, old man.” He turned toward the kitchen. “I’ll make us something to eat.” 

Bobby sat on a stool at the kitchen bar and watched in fascination as Dean pulled out eggs, bacon, and a giant tub of already peeled and chopped potatoes. The boy pulled two skillets from under the counter and fired up the stove. Butter to slick the pans, four eggs cracked and scrambled right there in the skillet, a dash of milk and some ground pepper. He adjusted the fire under the next skillet, dropped another tab of butter and tilted the pan around till it melted. Tearing open a package of bacon, Dean dropped six strips in the pan and they started to crackle. 

It was absolutely fascinating. Bobby knew in an abstract way that Dean could cook. He knew that the only reason neither boys had stunted growth and malnutrition from infrequent meals was because Dean taught himself to cook when he was tall enough to reach the stove top standing on a chair. Bobby’d never actually seen him at the stove, but when he’d wandered into the kitchen in the morning and there were eggs, bacon, and coffee waiting he figured Dean must have made it. God knows Sam couldn’t boil water without burning the pot and setting something on fire. 

But knowing and seeing it firsthand are two very different things. Dean looked almost at peace as he stirred the eggs and used a fork to flip the bacon. He was smooth and practiced and perfectly timed. When the eggs were done and dumped in a bowl he started forking the bacon onto a large plate.

Bobby was expecting that to be it despite having seen Dean pulling more food out of the fridge, but he just added more butter to the bacon pan and dumped in the chopped potatoes.

Well, knock him over with a feather. Bobby was having a hard time really comprehending what he was seeing. It was no surprise that Dean could cook, it was the practiced ease he had with whipping up a large amount of food for a midnight breakfast dinner. He was even frying up hash browns exactly the way Bobby liked them.

Another pang of homesickness ached in his chest. He hadn’t had real honest to God hash browns since he and Dean had gone their separate ways and here Dean was making them just for him.

Damn, Bobby had missed his boys, had missed Dean. Home just wasn’t the same without Winchesters and their trouble clogging up his life. 

“Alright.” A soft clatter and Bobby realized that Dean had finished cooking and was setting two plates down on the bar with accompanying forks and actual cloth napkins. The eggs, bacon, and hash browns were already lined up on the bar with serving utensils shoved in the dishes.

Bobby looked up from the food and met Dean’s satisfied expression with sincerity. “Thank you.” 

A faint blush stained the boy’s freckled cheeks. “Hey! I didn’t cook this all for you, old man. Just figured I might as well make enough for two.”

Bobby let the deflection slide. Kid just couldn’t take a thank you to save his life.

They finally began eating and Dean started to explain his master plan for getting Bobby out of his deal. 

“I know a guy that can find where Crowley’s grave is without having to summon any ghosts.” He said while shoveling a forkful of eggs and potato into his mouth, talking around it. 

Bobby smirked; at least some things never change. “Yeah? And who is the guy?”

Dean gave him a mischievous grin. “A friend of mine.” 

“That don’t tell me squat.”

“‘Course not. If I told you everything then it wouldn’t be a surprise.” Dean looked worryingly smug as he continued to grin around a strip of bacon. 

Ignoring his trepidation, Bobby rolled his eyes and moved the conversation back on track. “Even if your friend can figure out where he’s planted it’s probably going to be in Scotland. We actually need his bones here if we’re going to use them as leverage.” 

Dean nodded. “I don’t think that will be a problem.” He paused, thinking until his whole face contorted in a grimace. “If we have to we can fly and get them ourselves.” 

Bobby looked at him in shock. He knew just how terrified Dean was flying. The boys had told him about the exorcism they’d done midflight. Sam told him, Dean scowling and glaring at his brother the whole time, that after the demon was exorcised, Dean locked himself in the bathroom and threw up for the rest of the flight.

Needless to say, Bobby had fluffy squishy feelings clogging up his chest that Dean was even offering to brave air travel for him. 

Bobby opened his mouth to respond with something suitably chick-flick enough to make Dean uncomfortable and embarrassed, but he didn’t get a chance. 

“Dean?” 

The quiet groggy voice from the doorway into the kitchen made both hunters turn. There was a kid, no older than ten, wearing a t-shirt and batman pajama bottoms with bare feet squinting at them like he was still mostly asleep. 

“Hey, Ben.” Dean greeted him with a smile and stood up. 

The little boy’s eyes widened before he rocketed across the kitchen and lunged into Dean’s chest. He wrapped his arms around him and squeezed for all he was worth. Dean just chuckled and put his own arms around the boy and held him, feet off the ground, tight to his chest. 

“Hey kiddo, miss me?” He grinned at the kid when his feet were back on the floor. 

The boy, Ben, blushed and bent his head toward his toes, peeking up at Dean through his hair. “Yeah, I really missed your cooking, you know. Mom just doesn’t make bacon like you do.” 

Dean seemed utterly delighted with the kid’s teasing and ruffled his hair affectionately. The kid didn’t seem to mind the ruffling all that much. 

The scene was so foreign Bobby was momentarily stunned silent. Then he was reminded of his earlier thoughts about Dean and his magic way with kids. The scene wasn’t so foreign after that. He smiled softly.

“What are you doing up so late?” Dean asked the kid, trying and failing to appear stern. 

Apparently the kid thought so too, because he just grinned. “Was trying to wait up for you ‘cause Mom said you were coming back late, but I fell asleep. I woke up and had to check if you were back yet.”

Sighing, Dean stroked a hand over the boy’s head smoothing down the hair he’d just mussed. “You shouldn’t have done that, kid. You could have just seen me in the morning.”

Ben just shrugged not at all repentant. 

Rolling his eyes Dean let it drop and instead turned unblocking Ben’s view of Bobby.

“Ben, this is my friend, Bobby. He’s the hunter I was helping out this weekend.”

Bobby held out his hand for a shake. The boy looked at the hand with surprise before he reached and gave it a shake proudly, his chest puffing up. Bobby’s hand engulfed the boy’s and though he was amused he had to smother a pang of loss for the kids he would never have. 

He was really just a ball of memories and feelings tonight. What’s next? Was he going to start crying during Hallmark movies now too?

“Good to meet you, Ben. Sorry for pulling Dean away for the weekend.” 

The kid dropped his hand when Bobby pulled away and shrugged suddenly shy. “S’okay.”

Satisfied that his adopted father and his adopted son were on relatively good terms Dean started to usher the kid out of the kitchen.

“Time to go back to bed, Ben. I won’t tell your mom ‘cause then she’d have both our hides, but I’m still waking you up at ass-crack in the morning to get you to school.” 

Ben gave an exaggerated sigh. “Okay.” 

They said their goodnights and Dean watched him slump up the stairs waiting until he heard the kid’s door close before turning his attention away.

Stepping back into the kitchen he noticed the unreadable expression on Bobby’s face and he shifted uncomfortably under his gaze.

“What?”

Bobby shook his head and turned back to his three a.m. breakfast. 

Dean decided to ignore it. Sitting down again, he turned back to his meal as well. 

“So what are we going to do once we get Crowley’s bones?”

The conversation continued on until all the food was consumed and both hunters were yawning so much it was embarrassing. 

Dean insisted on helping Bobby make up the couch before he disappeared down the hall to his bedroom. Bobby looked around the homey living and down at the surprisingly comfortable looking couch. It had been a long time since he’d slept on a couch that didn’t smell like spilt beer and had more springs poking through than fluff in the cushions. 

This level of suburban domesticity was unheard of in the hunting community and it was rare in the semi-retired. Even Bobby’s own home was not as comfortable as this for all that it was his home. He resolved to enjoy this glimpse into Dean’s new life while he could. Kicking his boots off, Bobby collapsed on the amazingly comfortable couch crawling between clean sheets and under the fabric softener scented blanket. He was deep asleep in moments. 

*

The next morning Bobby was awoken by the sound of preadolescent feet stomping down the stairs like a herd of elephants. Grunting in exhaustion he propped himself up on his elbows and looked over the back of the couch. 

Two boys, Ben and another kid were failing at being quiet as they whispered loudly and walked heavily past the couch. Dean must have warned them not to wake him up. It was wasted effort. 

“Boys, get your butts in here already. You’re about as stealthy as a herd of elephants.” Great minds think alike. “You need to eat breakfast before I take you to school.” Dean called from the kitchen not bothering to lower the volume. 

Apparently that was all the boys needed, because they raced into the kitchen, their voices at their normal cringingly loud volume. Bobby obviously wasn’t going to get anymore sleep until they were out of the house so he threw back the covers grunting and groaning as he pushed himself off the couch. His back was actually relatively pain free even though he’d spent the night on the couch, but he wouldn’t be a crotchety old man if he didn’t at least put up some kind of a fuss.

Shuffling into the kitchen, Bobby saw the two boys already sitting at the bar shoveling breakfast into their mouths. Taking the seat next to the kid he didn’t know, he squinted tiredly at Dean who was still at the stove flipping pancakes in a skillet. Looking around the kitchen Bobby realized the boy had actually made them from scratch. 

At some point, Bobby was going to stop being surprised by Dean’s domestic skills. He reckoned it wasn’t going to be anytime soon. 

“Sorry the boys woke you up, Bobby.” Dean plated up three pancakes and dropped them in front of the older hunter with a pad of butter on top. A bottle of syrup was pushed toward him and a cup of coffee sat on the bar fixed just how Bobby liked it: black. 

“Since I get pancakes I won’t hold it against them.” 

The boys were looking at him in fascination. The new kid seemed more curious.

“Are you really a hunter?” He asked and Bobby was momentarily thrown. Ben in the know he expected since Dean had told him about the changeling hunt, but the other kid hadn’t had any supernatural contact as far as he knew. 

Bobby looked at Dean. The younger hunter gave him a nod so he turned back to answer the kid’s question. 

“I’m a hunter, but I don’t go out in the field as much. I usually work the phones.”

“What’s that mean?” New Kid asked. 

“Means I do research on monsters and talk to the cops so hunters don’t get arrested.” He said, hoping the kid didn’t ask him to elaborate; plausible deniability and all that.

Thankfully, the kid just breathed, “Cool,” then went back to his breakfast with wide awed eyes. 

After the boys had literally licked their plates clean they scurried around the bar to rinse them in the sink then dropped them in the dishwasher. 

“Go get your backpacks.” Dean ordered as he put the dirty pans and mixing bowls into the dishwasher before adding soap, closing the door and starting it up. 

“Go catch a few more winks, Bobby. I’ve got things to do then I’m braving the grocery store before I pick up the kids from school.” With that Dean was swaggering past him ushering the kids out the door. 

Bobby sat, mildly stunned until he heard the Impala fire up and back out of the driveway. He finished off his pancakes and his coffee then followed the kids’ lead taking his dishes to the sink, but since the dishwasher was already running he hand washed them and set them on the drying rack next to the sink when he was done. 

Wandering back to the living room, he looked down at his comfortable couch bed and shrugged. No harm in getting a few more minutes. 

Thirty minutes later he was woken up by Dean walking past the living room. He noticed Bobby looking between him and the basket of laundry he was carrying in bewilderment. 

“Got any dirty clothes? I’ll wash it with the rest.”

And the rest of the morning didn’t get any less surreal after that. 

Bobby watched in morbid fascination as Dean Mr. Mom-ed his way through the house. 

The kitchen and the remaining clean up from breakfast, the living room with its scattered kid paraphernalia; nothing was left unclean or untidy. Hell, Dean even conscripted him into helping fold clothes. 

Superhero tightie-whities and miniature t-shirts and shorts, lacy lingerie and flowey blouses and skintight exercise pants, frayed boxers and plaid and faded jeans. There wasn’t a single thing that Dean didn’t fold with military precision. 

Bobby was trying really hard not to be disturbed, but by the time all the household chores were done he was tempted to dump a flask of holy water over Dean’s head. 

The drive to the grocery store was filled with cock rock and finger tapping; normal Dean stuff. Once they got there, however, Bobby stared at Dean like he was a pod person as he’d tested out five different grocery carts before he got one that didn’t squeak or veer to the left. 

When Bobby asked why Dean was buying enough fruit to feed an army he said, “I have to feed the kids healthy snacks or they get so wired on sugar they run around screaming like a chicken with its head cut off and do stupid shit like jump out of trees.” 

He shrugged when Bobby just stared blankly at him. “Plus I get glared at if the parents have to carry them home ‘cause they’re catatonic from sugar crash.”

He’d noticed Dean dropping a plural on parent and Bobby could feel his hunter instincts hollering bloody murder. He had the frightful suspicion that the day was just going to get more interesting from there. Interesting was never good.

After groceries, more chores, and more twilight zone, Bobby had confirmation. He’d been very right about the interesting. 

Looking around at the six boys and two girls that had invaded the house, he grimly watched Dean wade out of the middle of the hoard. Bobby had done the smart thing and parked himself well out of the range of fire.

“You’re a babysitter, aren’t you?” 

“Yep.” Dean’s response was prompt and deadpan. Bobby just breathed out a heavy gust of air.

Well he’d said that Dean was the pied piper when it came to kids. This shouldn’t be such a damned surprise. 

Bobby took a few steadying gulps of air and tried to prepare himself for four more days of this. They weren’t doing anything about Crowley until Saturday. And if the rest of his week was going to be filled with more Mr. Mom Dean and kids under the age of teen, he was going to have to prepare himself. 

Completely not prepared at all, Bobby knew this was going to be a long, _interesting_ week. 

*

Saturday came surprisingly quickly. Bobby had found that he kind of enjoyed having kids around making little nuisances of themselves. He found out that all of them knew about the things that go bump in the night and all of them knew the basic protections against them. 

Errol, the kid that pretty much lived with them, informed Bobby that Dean and Detective Jeffery and Detective Ashley had taught them all a summer defense class against bad guys and bad monsters. 

That little tidbit of information resulted in Bobby having a near heart attack. He dragged the entire story out of Dean of how he got to be on a first name basis with two cops. It had not been a comforting story, but he was thankful that the boy wasn’t going to be carted off to super-max anytime soon. 

Perhaps the most surprising and disturbing thing Bobby learned about Dean’s knew life was that he was being followed around by curious angels. Nothing good ever came from angels taking an interest in you, but Dean didn’t seem too bothered. Through the week while they were at the park with the kids, at the grocery store, or picking kids up from school Dean would suddenly glance over and roll his eyes before going back to whatever he’d been doing. 

The first time this had happened, Bobby asked him about it. Dean just looked at him funny and said that an angel was watching them at the other the end of the frozen food aisle. Bobby hadn’t seen no angel, but he took  
Dean’s word for it. He couldn’t ignore, however, the fact that Dean was the only one that could see them because the boy didn’t seem to realize the feather brains were invisible. 

Bobby decided not to tell him he was doing anything strange until he could do some research in his own library. 

When Saturday rolled around, Bobby thought, between the kids and angels, Dean couldn’t surprise him anymore. He was wrong. 

“So who’s this friend of yours? A professor in the know?” Bobby asked as he was sipping at a beer and sitting outside with Dean on the back porch. 

“Nope,” Dean looked mischievous and that never boded well. 

Sighing, Bobby set his beer down and glared at the boy. “Well, don’t keep me in suspense. I’m like to get old waiting on you.” 

Chuckling, Dean grinned at him, “I didn’t know people could get much older than you.” 

Bobby looked unimpressed. “Get on with it, boy.”

Dean grinned, but didn’t stall anymore. He lifted his hands palm up, closed his eyes, and bowed his head. “Alfie, I need a favor. Flutter your feathery behind down here.” Peeking his eyes open, Dean sighed and closed them again. “Please.”

Bobby knew his jaw was hanging open. He was staring at Dean like he had sprouted a second head. Dean just looked at him sheepishly. 

“Boy, tell me you are not befriending anymore angels. One was enough.” 

A scowl wrinkled his brow and Dean turned away taking a resentful gulp from his beer. “Yeah, well Cas hasn’t been around. I figured if his angel buddies were going to be following me around I might as well get to know my stalkers.”

Bobby hadn’t realized that Dean could be lonely when he was surrounded by crazy kids and their suburban parents, but when he thought about it he realized that none of them were actually his friends. Still, it was weird and dangerous to fraternize with angels. 

A soft familiar flutter and Bobby turned to see a teenager in a red and white striped fast food uniform looking at them curiously. 

“I’m sorry for the delay,” the angel said. “I had to complete my current duties before Castiel would give me leave to answer your prayer.” 

Dean waved away his apology. “No problem, I didn’t expect you to hurry down. Pull up a seat. I’ll get you a soda.” 

Bobby and the angel both watched Dean disappear into the house then turned back to eye each other. It was only a moment before “Alfie” seemed to deem him nonthreatening and stepped over to the third porch lounger. He picked it up with one hand and set it down directly in front of his and Dean’s. 

The teenage angel shifted awkwardly from foot to foot obviously not quite sure what he was supposed to do next. Dean stepped back out and tossed a can of Dr. Pepper to him. The angel caught it with one hand and popped the tab with one finger in a practiced move. It was obvious Dean was the one that taught him that. 

“Dude, take a seat. You make me jumpy hovering like that.” Dean threw himself down on his lounger and picked his beer up. 

Alfie squinted at Dean taking in exactly how he was sprawled with his legs crossed at the ankle and his arms spread on the rests. It was kind of amusing to watch a being older than dirt lower himself onto lawn furniture and position himself just like Dean with a few glances to check he was doing it right. 

Dean gave him an approving nod with an amused quirk of his lips. Bobby just watched the entire thing shaking his head in disbelief. Apparently it wasn’t just kids that gravitated toward Dean; it was feathered pains in the ass too. He seriously needs to research whatever superpowers suburbia has infected Dean with. 

“You said you wanted a favor.” Alfie reminded them. 

Swallowing his mouthful of beer Dean straightened. “Yeah, I need you to find out where Fergus MacLeod is buried and I need you get me his bones.” 

The angel looked between Dean and Bobby before he spoke. “Fergus Macleod is a demon and you wish to blackmail him into releasing Robert Singer from his deal.” 

“Got it in one.” Dean snapped his fingers and pointed at him. 

Alfie just raised an eyebrow at him. “Why should I do this favor for you?”

Bobby was about to get surly and belligerent until he noticed the proud grin on Dean’s face. Well, fuck. Dean had been teaching the angel more than just how to drink soda. He just knew he was going to get a headache by the time this conversation was over. 

Still grinning, Dean said, “Because Bobby sold his soul to help stop the apocalypse and Crowley is trying to renege on their deal.”

Alfie tilted his head as if considering Dean’s words. “I don’t think that is a good enough reason to anger the King of Hell.”

If it were possible Dean’s grin got even bigger, but it quickly melted into a serious, earnest expression. Bobby had seen that look pry information from reluctant witnesses and convince law enforcement officers to turn a blind eye. He had no doubt it would work on an angel too.

It had worked on Castiel after all. 

“Because you’re my friend and because Bobby is the last family I have. I don’t want to see him go to Hell for trying to save the world.” 

Alfie stared into Dean’s eyes for a long uncomfortable moment not that the boy seemed to notice. Apparently he’d acquired a tolerance for prolonged eye contact with disturbingly powerful celestial beings. 

Finally, Alfie broke their gaze and gave a sigh. Apparently he’d been practicing that too, because he flicked his eyes up to Dean for approval before he continued. “Since you are my friend, Dean Winchester, I’ll do this favor for you.”

Dean’s face broke out into an honest to God smile. The angel seemed unable to stop himself from returning it with a smaller, but just as pleased one of his own. 

“Thank you, man. Seriously, I owe you a major one.” 

Shaking his head in protest, Alfie stood up. “I seek no reciprocation, Dean. I’m happy to do it.” 

“Still.” Dean persisted with a grateful quirk of his lips. The angel actually blushed a bit. It was just one unbelievable thing after another. Bobby wasn’t sure how much more he could take before he went insane. 

After that bizarre negotiation, Dean and Alfie hashed out a rough plan for the next day before the angel bid them both goodbye and flew away. He took the soda with him.

*

TBC…


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley is the motherfucking King of Hell. But, apparently, Dean Winchester is a scary motherfucker.

The red tape and bureaucratic maneuvering involved in ruling Hell was exhausting. It almost made being King not worth it all. Almost. 

Crowley was shrewd and ruthless and, unlike most of the blithering idiots running around, he was not short sighted. He didn’t just sit around with his thumbs up his ass content to spend his days torturing and raping and watching reruns of _Jersey Shore_. You know, that old chestnut. 

No, he planned for the future; made contingencies, assessed the various shifts in power throughout the supernatural world for ways to exploit them. 

There wasn’t a modest bone in his stolen body, either. He was clever, and savvy, and Hell’s most innovative demon and he knew it. You don’t hold the title of King of the Crossroads for centuries and become the motherfucking King of Hell by being mediocre, punching in a time card and sitting on your ass like a city employee. You had to improve on old tired procedures. You had to write contracts with fine print for the fine print. You had to hustle up deals like a used car insurance salesman with a quota to meet. You had to kill and betray and double-cross. You had to have so many irons burning in the fire that no matter which way the tide turned you would always be on top. You had to think outside the goddamn box, so to speak. 

Crowley knew he was the best of the best. He was the King sitting on his throne with all of Hell at his feet. 

So with that deserved arrogance Crowley was still basking in the satisfaction that he owned Bobby Singer’s soul and, by extension, had the one remaining Winchester by the short and curlies. 

That had been a clever piece of fine print, if he did say so himself. Now, he just had to decide what he was going to do with that lovely leverage. Oh, the possibilities were endless.

*

The Summoning came during a quarterly meeting. Crowley was, of course, presiding and was subsequently so bored with the squabbling and brown nosing he was tempted to just start torturing the next demon that offered to literally bend over for him. 

The insistent magical tugging was just the convenient excuse he needed. He ended the meeting and followed the Summons. He wagered that what was waiting for him on the other end was to be infinitely more titillating than efficiency reports.

He was, of course, right.

Traveling to the obligatory abandoned warehouse, Crowley was just about to make his entrance when a flutter of wings and the stink of angel caught his attention. A wide positively evil grin curled at his lips and he whistled for his hellhounds. 

Oh yes, this was going to be very entertaining.

*

Crowley appeared before the two hunters right into a devil’s trap. It was all so tackily cliché. The empty warehouse, the artless decoupage of wards and symbols, and let’s not forget the demon killing knife held intimidatingly in Dean Winchester’s hand. Of course the picture wouldn’t be complete without angrily constipated looking hunters.

It was enough to give Crowley nostalgia; either that or more boredom. Maybe he should have just stayed in Hell and tortured some suicide bombers; that was always good for a laugh. 

“Well, well, Grumpy uncle and squirrel. Long time no see.” Let it never be said that Crowley didn’t like his snark.

“Crowley.” Dean nodded his head with an insincere smirk. “How not nice to see you.”

“Yes, well. I could say that the feeling is mutual.” Crowley responded with an unconcerned shrug in the face of whatever little plan they had cooked up. The thing about hunters, specially these two, was that they always thought they were cleverer than they were. He’s the King, baby, he’s not worried.

Crowley heard the triumphant howl of his hellhounds and his lips curled in satisfaction. Time to get this show on the road. 

“I got a bone to pick with you, Crowley.” Dean said. 

Did he detect a note of ironic humor in Dean’s voice? Crowley raised an eyebrow, but brushed it aside.

“Really? I couldn’t tell what with this lovely devil’s trap and this prime piece of real-estate you picked for our little tete-a-tete.” He didn’t do more than scowl and Crowley rolled his eyes. “So tell me, to what do I owe the honor of your rather forceful invitation? It couldn’t have anything to do with that little piece of collateral I’m still holding onto, could it?”

“My soul ain’t no ‘little piece’ of nothing, Crowley, and I want it back.” Bobby Singer spoke for the first time his hand tightening around the stock of his shotgun. A useless gesture of course, but whatever made the old man feel better, Crowley supposed. 

“Yes, well, regardless of the size of your piece, I do believe we already covered trying to break your deal the last time you summoned me.” Crowley slipped his hands into his pockets and put his insurance claim adjuster “c’est la vie” face on. “No refunds, Singer, and sicking your domesticated attack dog on me isn’t going to rewrite the clause on your naughty bits.”

Neither hunter seemed amused. Crowley chuckled at Dean’s indignant, “I’m not anyone’s attack dog, douche bag!”

“But you are domesticated.” Crowley couldn’t help but smirk. “Is that a hint of a muffin top there, Dean? Letting yourself go, tisk tisk.”

“Enough, Crowley. I want my damn soul back.” Singer didn’t seem to notice his ironic choice in words, so Crowley decided not to point it out.

“‘Best efforts to return’, Singer.” 

“Well, then, Crowley,” Dean cut in before Singer could lunge into the trap and try to strangle Crowley himself, “I guess we’ll just have to give it our best effort not to waste you.” 

The King of Hell scoffed. “Please, like I would let you near me with that little pig sticker.” He nodded at the primitive little knife still gripped in Dean’s hand. “I’m the King of Hell. You would be little piles of ash on the ground before you could even try.” 

No exaggeration; with the title of King came a sizable boost in power. Crowley was just about the most powerful demon in Hell. Even the great Dean Winchester wouldn’t be able to gank him now. 

However, Crowley’s threat only seemed to amuse the younger hunter. Stepping to one side he revealed a metal trough with a pile of bones at the bottom. He pulled a lighter from his pocket and flicked it nonchalantly. 

“That’s where you’re wrong, Crowley.” Dean said still with that little smirk on his lips. Crowley looked mildly curious at this new turn of conversation. 

“You see this here,” Winchester pointed at the trough, “is the last earthly remains of one, Fergus McLeod.”

Uncertainty, for the first time in a century, flashed through Crowley. “That’s just a myth.” He said, holding onto that truth even as the uncertainty began to grow inside him. “Burning bones; that won’t really work.”

“There’s a former employee of yours in my basement that would beg to differ.” Singer replied with satisfaction.

Crowley could only stare between the hunters and his own bones. This vaguely amusing little interaction had just gotten so very unamusing. He found himself floundering like he hadn’t since he first took the Crossroads Demon gig.

He didn’t have time to formulate a suitably flippant response because Dean produced a bottle of lighter fluid from somewhere and squeezed the entire thing out onto Crowley’s bones. 

The empty bottle clattered to the stained concrete floor the sound of a spark wheel clicking followed. 

“Hear that, Crowley? I’m flicking my bic for you.” He snapped his thumb down again and the sound echoed. “Bobby’s soul or your bones, pick one.” 

Suddenly, the shock and fear was gone. Crowley got his shit together enough to remember that he was the fucking King of Hell, goddamnit. He was the demon of plans within plans within contingencies. He was the consummate salesmen. He always came out on top of a deal. He was the best. 

And he had just the thing to turn this situation back in his favor. 

“I have to say, boys, you almost had me there, but you forgot one thing,” Crowley whistled and just like that he had the hunters by the balls again, “I’m the bloody King of Hell.”

*

Dean’s breath was knocked out of his chest and he almost dropped his lighter in shock. On Crowley’s whistle Alfie appeared just outside of the devil’s trap held on his knees by two giant hellhounds. One had its jaws locked around one of his right wings. His left arm was crushed in the other hound’s teeth, Alfie’s golden ring was crushed and its flame was extinguished by the hound’s acid saliva. 

Alfie’s vessel was covered in blood, face and chest clawed nearly to the bone. His belly ripped open deep enough to see the white of intestine. The angel’s left thigh was gnarled and massacred. There was grace leaking everywhere, vaporizing the moment it hit the air. The high pitched whine it caused made Dean’s ears ache. 

If the teenager hadn’t been possessed by an angel he would have been beyond dog chow by then. 

Dean stared at the scene before him, at the massive, bone scaled, red-eyed monsters that stank of the damned holding one of his angels bleeding on his knees. 

He looked back at the demon in their trap and felt something civilized inside him snap. He distantly registered the smell of ozone in the air. 

“Ah,” Crowley spoke, satisfied, “I see you recognize your little angelic helper.” 

“Let him go.” Not a plea, an order. Dean’s voice had dropped register and a tremor echoed through the air making the hairs on the backs of Crowley’s and Bobby’s necks stand on end. There was power building in the room.

The King of Hell barely suppressed a shudder as his smirk of triumph evaporated abruptly. He took a mental step back and reassessed the situation. 

Something had been niggling at him from the moment he’d appeared in the warehouse, but he hadn’t thought it important enough to bother with. He was swiftly starting to regret that decision. 

Crowley hadn’t paid much mind before, obviously a mistake, but now he studied the hunter closely. Winchester’s soul was just a shade brighter; to an evil demonic being as himself it was nearly too bright to look at. Now that he was paying attention, Crowley was surprised that he hadn’t noticed before. It wasn’t just the brightness that had changed about Dean’s soul, no, it smelled different too. 

Where Bobby Singer’s soul still smelled like old, grumpy, lonely, childless widower with a hint of _mine_ , Dean Winchester’s soul had evolved. Underneath the low self-esteem, daddy issues, grief, and righteousness there was now a distinct note of divine purity. Crowley would have said it smelled something akin to cleanliness. The only things that had the same stench of good and holy were unicorns, furry baby animals, and angels. 

The last time Crowley had the displeasure to scent Winchester’s soul was the day before little Moose Winchester had taken the high dive into the cage. There hadn’t been a hint of divinity in his soul beyond the whiff of Righteous Man and Michael Sword. Now, though, Crowley was unsettled to realize that not only were the undertones of Righteous Man and Michael Sword still there, but the rank of something else, something _more_ was almost overpowering them. It made the smell of Dean Winchester’s soul seep into the air around him and the brightness of it light him up like lightbulb. Not quite blinding, but still pretty damn uncomfortable to look at. 

Regardless, Crowley was the King of Hell. He wouldn’t be intimidated that easily. 

“Why would I let go of my feathered leverage and leave you and your substitute father there holding most of the cards?” Crowley asked quickly finding his footing again. “That’s just good business sense. Now, I dictate the terms.”

Dean made an unpleasant sound in the back of his throat as he struggled not to let the angry roiling thing in his gut take over. “I don’t think you understood me. I’m telling you to let my angel go.” 

“Your angel? Possessive, aren’t we?” Crowley hummed amusedly. “I’ll handover my hostage when you handover yours.” He nodded to the trough still filled with his lighter fluid doused bones.

Dean didn’t even hesitate. “Give me my angel and I’ll let you walk out of here.”

The King of Hell raised an eyebrow and canted his head toward the hellhounds. “I’ve got your grumpy redneck, your pet angel, and two very hungry hellhounds. Even if you torch my bones my puppies will still make kibble out of you.”

The beast with Alfie’s arm in its jaws growled and gave a sharp jerk of its head. Alfie’s body was yanked with it and the angel let out a yelp of pain that made the windows in the warehouse crack. Red started to creep into Dean’s vision. 

He took a step toward Crowley still locked in his trap. The demon squirmed as Dean’s eyes bored into his. The aura of wrathful calm now emanating from the hunter was just a little terrifying.

“You might win today, Crowley,” Dean growled. “Your hounds might eat me, you might make it out of here with Bobby’s soul and my angel, but tomorrow there won’t be a spider hole dark enough to hide in or an end far enough to run to that I can’t hunt you down.” His steely gaze drilled the truth of it into demon that was threatening what was _his_. Not even death would stop Dean from going after Crowley to get back what he’d stolen.

The King of Hell absolutely refused to admit that the quiver in his stomach was fear. He’d just had a bad muffin at the meeting earlier. 

“I’m the King of Hell!” Crowley snapped, trying to cover with anger. “You are an insignificant little piss pot. You think you can challenge me, I have the legions of Hell swinging from my bollocks.”

Despite his graphic imagery a yorkie with a Napoleonic complex would have been more intimidating. It wouldn’t have mattered who he was; demon, angel, King, or god, you didn’t fuck with Dean’s own. 

There was a rumbling in Dean’s chest like thunder; the dust floating in the air tremored. The power in the air was still building and Crowley had to avert his gaze. 

“Look at me, bitch!” Like a magnet, Crowley’s eyes snapped back to Dean. The demon shook with the effort to look away, but he was frozen. 

“I have killed bigger dicks than you, Crowley. Azazel, The Whore of Babylon, Zachariah; you are small fish. I was Alistair’s Apprentice; you are a glorified salesman. You fucked up, Crowley. You messed with the best and I will kill you like the rest.” He was terrifying. Bobby and Crowley and the hellhounds were all held enthralled by the deadly serious promise of Dean’s words.

“Look into my eyes, Crowley, and tell me I’m lying because if you don’t give back what’s mine, they will be the last things you ever see.” 

It has been a very long time since Crowley felt this much fear. It was galling. He was the bloody King! He could rip all three of them, the hunters and their pet angel, apart before they could even blink and yet Dean Winchester had him practically shaking in his custom-made Italian leather shoes. 

Winchester had been nothing but a broken bag of self-loathing when Crowley had taken his throne, but now. Now there was something wrong with him. So wrong in fact that before Crowley could even register what he was doing he’d snapped his fingers. 

Alfie fell from the hellhounds’ jaws like a rag doll. His head bounced off the concrete and his body sprawled out like he’d lost control of his limbs. That achingly high pitched ringing in the air and the rays of grace leaking and evaporating into the atmosphere were still there. Dean knew he wouldn’t feel any kind of relieved until he could get his hands on his angel and start patching him up. 

“There, you have your angel,” Crowley grumbled trying not to let his continued unease into his voice. “Now be a love and let me out.” 

Apparently that was the wrong thing to say because Dean’s dark gaze turned back on Crowley and the demon felt himself tense up. 

“And Bobby’s soul.” Dean said. He wasn’t going to let Crowley scurry away until he had everything he came for. The demon gritted his teeth and snapped his fingers again. 

Bobby hissed and Dean flicked his eye over to see clay red demonic writing flare up then disappear from Bobby’s skin. “Leave in the part about his legs.” 

Crowley now looked supremely peeved, but he didn’t want to risk anymore of Dean’s wrath. The lettering flared up again then was gone. 

“Any more demands or are you going to give my bollocks back?”

An unsettling smirk started to curl at the corner of Dean’s mouth, but whatever pithy response he was about to make was cut off when one of the hellhounds snarled. 

Everyone’s attention snapped around just in time to see the hound make a lunge toward the injured angel. Apparently it hadn’t liked the fact that Alfie had been weakly trying to lift himself up. 

His demonic life flashed before his eyes. Crowley knew that if the hound succeeded in actually killing the angel he was so fucking screwed, and not the good kind. He was a sharply inhaled breath from snapping out a hurried command, but Dean got there first. 

“Back off!” The hound jerked like it’d been whacked on the nose with a newspaper and shrank away with its tail literally between its legs. “He’s mine, so git! Go on, git!” feeling blisteringly scolded the hound turned tail and ran.

The other hound, having decided that it didn’t want to anger the alpha in the room too, bolted after its companion.

There was a long pause of shocked silence. Dean was completely oblivious to the expressions on the other two men’s faces. Bobby and Crowley just stared at him with uneasiness and indignation, respectively.

“Hey! You can’t just order around my dog!”

Dean ignored him and looked at Bobby. “Let him out. We’re done here.” 

Without saying a word, Bobby moved to comply scratching a gap though the outer circle of the devil’s trap. He kept a wary watchful eye on Dean though. This whole crap fest revealed more pieces to the puzzle of weird that was going on with Dean. He couldn’t decide if all of this was more enlightening or worrying. He settled on a combination of the two. 

Crowley stepped out of the trap as soon as the line was cut. He didn’t want to stay in this rundown warehouse with this changed Dean Winchester a moment longer than he had to. There was investigating to be done. It was unwise to let a development like this go unexplored. That was how you got killed… like Azazel, the Whore, and Zachariah. You didn’t underestimate the Winchesters and live to tell the tale. 

He was getting off unbelievably lucky, Crowley knew that, and he was unwilling to let himself be in this position again. 

“Well, gents, it was lovely doing business with you. I’ll just grab my bits and bobs and be on my-”

“No.” 

“Pardon?” He tried not to cringe at the ice in Dean’s voice. 

“We’re not negotiating. You ixnayed that the moment you took my angel.” Dean said, his voice was dark and final. He looked at the King of Hell and the demon felt a little scorched under his gaze. “Now, get out of my sight before I decide to gank you anyway.”

And so it was that with enormous hesitation Crowley popped himself away leaving his leverage and his bones behind. At least the knowledge that Winchester was still too goody-two-shoes to break his word and light up his worldlies after he got what he’d wanted was mildly reassuring. Crowley would just have to do a little research and a little spying to get back on top. 

It was, after all, what he was best at. 

*

The moment Crowley disappeared Dean lunged toward Alfie, skidding next to him on his knees. Fluttering his hands over the angel helplessly Dean had to forcefully push down his panic to focus. 

“Bobby, help me turn him over.” 

He hadn’t even noticed that Bobby was already on the other side of Alfie until the older hunter’s hands were firmly but gently easing the angel onto his side then onto his back.

They got Alfie on his back and he let out a screech of agony when his broken ruined wing was jostled. 

“Shit. I’m sorry, Alfie. Hang in there, we’ll fix you up.” Dean ignored the blinding rays of grace still stabbing out of the angel’s wounds and pressed down hard on his nearly gutted belly. 

Bobby was amazed that the angel was still even semi-conscious. If it had been anything other than an angel the thing would have bled out long before then. As it was the teenager in the red and white striped Wiener Hut uniform was pretty much drenched in blood. 

“Dean, he’s not healing.” He started ripping open the uniform shirt to assess the damage. It wasn’t good. Bobby had to swallow the bile rising up the back of his throat when the image of Dean dead and ravaged by hellhounds superimposed itself over the angel. 

“Fuck. I know, Bobby.” Dean gritted through clenched teeth as he assessed Alfie’s wounded wing while his hands were still holding the kid’s guts inside. The crashing ocean wave wings were twisted at an unnatural angel and what looked like the multidimensional wavelength equivalent of bone was poking through. “Shit, kid, what do we do?” He breathed desperately. 

Alfie whined high and shrill and more cracks spider webbed through the windows in the warehouse. More grace pulsed out of him and blew away on a nonexistent breeze. 

“Bobby, take off your jacket and try to stop the bleeding.” Dean ordered as he yanked his own off and ripped off a sleeve pressing the rest against Alfie’s stomach. He took the sleeve and held it tight against the angel’s wing. 

Alfie trembled on the concrete and let out a sob, pearlescent tears streaming across his temples. 

Bobby had his sleeves torn off his jacket and tied tight around the angel’s high, the rest wadded up and pressed to his arm already soaking through with blood. He looked over and saw the rags of Dean’s jacket covering the belly wound and the sleeve pressed to the angel’s back were the bone was poking through. 

“Alfie, baby, tell me what to do.” Dean turned the angel’s face toward him and looked into his eyes holding him with his gaze keeping him from going unconscious. “How do I help you?”

The baby angel gasped and gurgled through the blood in his throat before he was able to force out words. “Close them. I need-,” he coughed blood splattering his lips, “close the wounds, my grace will stop bleeding.” 

Dean looked up at Bobby, both hunters had the same thought. “The med kit, in the trunk. Get the med kit, there’s needles and thread in there.” 

In the blink of an eye Bobby was back on his knees next to Dean and the angel. Just as quick both hunters had a sewing needle and thread or floss in hand. Bobby was working on Alfie’s thigh with non-wax floss and Dean was working on his belly with hot pink thread. -What? It was on sale.- With shaking hands and messy stitches the angel’s wounds were closed enough to stop the shining rays of grace from escaping Alfie’s vessel. 

Bobby tied off the last crooked stitch on the angel’s mauled arm cutting the floss with a pocket knife. He looked up in time to see Dean finish with Alfie’s back. 

Dean cut the thread with his teeth when he was finally done haphazardly sewing up his angel’s wing. The bone was still sticking out, but at least the flow of grace had been stemmed to a small trickle. 

“Alright.” He stashed the thread in a pocket and pinned the needle in the waistband of his jeans not noticing that he’d almost skewered his self. “Get the car started and open the backdoor.” 

Bobby caught the Impala’s keys out of the air and hurried to comply. Dean slid his arms under Alfie’s knees and shoulders being careful not to tear any stitches or jostle his wings too much. He lifted the angel into the air like he weighed a feather and was thankful that Alfie had finally lost consciousness. This would have been beyond painful if he had been awake. 

The drive back to Lisa’s was strained and twenty miles over the speed limit. The last thing on Dean’s mind at that moment was the risk of getting pulled over when he was covered in blood from head to toe with what looked like a mauled teenager in his arms. 

They skidded to a stop inches away from ramming Lisa’s garage door. There were minutes of utter chaos when Dean burst through the front door with a bleeding angel in his arms, Bobby close behind him with a burlap sack of bones over one shoulder, both of them plastered with blood. Lisa, Ben, and Errol were so shocked by the display that Lisa didn’t even notice the trail of blood leading from outside to Dean’s room. 

When Alfie was bleeding onto Dean’s bedspread he took a moment to stop and think. Everything had moved so fast from the second Crowley had showed that he’d been working purely on instinct and adrenaline. Now that there was as second to just freaking _think_ , Dean could call for help. 

_Alfie needs help. One of you feathered freaks get your ass down here and heal him._

There was a flutter and an angel appeared next to Dean. Two flaming balls of gold in either shoulder, a pair of running spring wings, a humanoid mask and a nightingale for faces, and -Dean blinked- blond hair and hipster scruff. 

“Dean Winchester.” The angel said with a placid expression on his face. “I am here to assist.”

Dean didn’t even pause. He pointed at the shallowly breathing, still profusely bleeding angel laid out on his bed. “Fix him.”

The angel nodded, “Of course.” He turned to Alfie and floated his palm over his forehead. The angel hummed. “Hellhounds. Normally there is nothing to be done about wounds inflicted by hellhounds.” 

“I don’t give a fuck about normally, you fix him now!” Dean ordered. It didn’t even occur to him that he should have tempered his reaction. He didn’t know that the angel before him had little to no experience with human interaction much less human emotion. 

Hipster Scruff’s brow furrowed as Dean’s anxiety and worry flowed over him. So much pain; the angel had to force down the impulse to place his palm upon the human’s forehead and end his suffering, but he had orders and he wouldn’t disobey. 

“Yes,” he told Dean Winchester his voice still serene and unhurried, “Castiel bid me heal Samandriel. I will do what I can.”

The angel turned back to Alfie and Dean watched closely as he waved his hands over him, never actually touching, sweeping through the air inch by inch. When the angel’s attention moved to Alfie’s wing his steady hands started to tremble and his face pinched up like he was in pain himself.

Hipster Scruff’s hand touched Alfie for the first time directly over Dean’s messy hot pink stitches. It started to glow ominously. Dean’s stomach tightened in alarm as the power started building in the strange angel. He was going to smite Alfie!

“No!” He grabbed Hipster Scruff’s wrist with bruising force halting the buildup of power like he’d shut off a faucet. “Don’t.”

The angel shuddered and his eyes squeezed shut until he seemed to get himself under control. The glowing receded and Dean gentled his hold by a fraction. 

Flicking his eyes toward the human, the angel bowed his head. “My apologies. I forgot myself.”

Dean pried his fingers from around Hipster Scruff’s wrist and glared at him. “Just don’t.”

“Of course.” Hipster Scruff nodded then turned back to his work. 

Dean watched as the remaining glowing disintegration of Alfie’s grace tapered off and finally stopped altogether following the path of Hipster Scruff’s hands. The vessel’s wounds and stitches hadn’t disappeared, but Dean knew that Alfie’s internal angel injuries were healing. 

An indeterminate amount of time later, Hipster Scruff straightened up from his position bent over Alfie and flicked his fingers like he was shaking water off his hands. 

“Samandriel has been put on the path to healing and the residual taint of the hellhounds has begun to cleanse,” the angel said. 

“However that is all I am able to do while here on Earth.” Hipster Scruff turned his gaze toward Dean. “He must be returned to Heaven so that he can fully heal.”

Dean’s shoulders dropped in relief and he rubbed a shaking hand over his hair. “Yeah, great, good. Do that.” 

“Yes, Dean Winchester.” Hipster Scruff’s mouth turned up in the barest reflection of an approving smile as he bowed his head. The weird formality of the angel’s response caused a flutter of confusion there and gone before Dean was busy concentrating on logistics.

“How do we get him there?”

“I will call upon a colleague and we will bring him to Heaven.”

In the end, Hipster Scruff’s “colleague” true formed it forcing Dean, Bobby, and the just now noticed Lisa and the boys back out into the hall. They all covered their ears and squeezed their eyes shut. When the eye exploding and ear bleeding action stopped, Dean opened his eyes and look back into his room. 

The blood that had been splattered everywhere was magically gone along with Alfie and the naked angel. Only Hipster Scruff was left behind still standing next to the bed like he hadn’t moved an inch. 

“Samandriel is being cared for by my fellow Rit Zien and now I must return as well.” 

Dean didn’t know what a “rizzen” was and he was just too damn tired to ask. “Awesome, thanks for everything.” 

Fatigue was quickly making speech and standing up unappealing, but Dean wasn’t going to relax just yet with an unfamiliar angel still taking up space in his room. 

The angel’s brows furrowed as he was buffeting with more of the human’s distresses. Castiel had made his orders very clear, however, so he pushed down his instincts again. 

“It was my duty.” He nodded to Dean and prepared to return home. 

Dean felt the angel’s wings spread and realized he’d forgotten something. “Hey, wait. What’s your name?”

Hipster Scruff tilted his head (seriously, was there any angel that didn’t do that?) curiously before he answered. “My name is Ephraim.” 

Huh, another vaguely normal name. “Well, thanks again, Ephraim. Alfie wouldn’t’ve made it without you.”

The human’s gratitude was a balm to the raw scraping of his earlier sufferings and Ephraim was fascinated by the mercurialness of human emotion. 

Another flitter of a smile twitched at Ephraim’s mouth. “You are welcome, Dean Winchester.”

With that the angel was gone. Dean decided that he was so done with today. He was going to ignore the question of what exactly a rizzen was, the weirdness of some of the angel’s responses, and the fact that angels kept full naming him. He looked down at himself and just then realized that he was caked in blood and Bobby wasn’t much better. There was a blood trail drying on the carpet out in the hall and Lisa, Ben and Errol were staring at him in uncomprehending shock and hero-worshiping awe. Respectively. 

He dredged up enough energy to grin carelessly at Bobby. 

“Hey, Bobby. You got your soul back, I got my angel fixed, Crowley got his ass handed to him, and everybody lived. All in all, I’m putting today down as a win.” 

Bobby just stared incredulously at the cocky, unnaturally lucky, supernaturally juiced, crazy ass idjit in front of him. “Boy, there’s something wrong with you.” 

Dean acknowledged that with a shrug. “So it’s been said.”

*

End.


End file.
